by Kim Bowman
He folded the fan and held it out. The silk was cool and light in her palm. Papa’s hand closed over hers as he showed her how to hold it then guided her in the motion to open it.
A delighted giggle slipped through Annabella’s lips, and her father smiled as she fanned herself. “Am I doing it correctly?” she asked. “Do I look like a proper lady?”
“Oh, most definitely you do, Lady Annabella,” he murmured, offering a courtly bow. When he straightened, he patted his vest pocket again. “Wait a minute. What have we here?” Smiling broadly, he removed a handful of hardened white sugar canes, each about the length of a goose quill but much thicker. “May I offer you peppermint and lemon, my lady?”
Annabella jumped up and down. “Those are my favorite!”
“Not quite yet.” Her father held them just out of reach and subjected her to a stern gaze. “First you must tell me… Were you a good girl for your mother?”
“I…” Annabella shuffled her feet in the dirt, trying not to recall her fit of pique at supper the night before. “I don’t like asparagus tips, Papa!” she burst out. “And Mama was going to make me eat them.”
Her father laid a hand over his heart and gave an exaggerated stagger backward. “Don’t like them? Why, my darling girl, have you ever tried them?”
She started to nod, but he raised one bushy eyebrow and she sighed. “They look odd, Papa, like green sticks with knobs on the ends.”
“Ahh… Am I to take it, then, that you argued with your mother?” he asked, gravely serious.
Annabella squirmed. “Yes, Papa,” she mumbled at the ground. “Mama was very angry. She said Cook had gone to the trouble of preparing the dish, and I must eat what is set in front of me.” Heat flooded her face as she dutifully repeated her mother’s reprimand.
Her father hunkered down in front of her. “I see. And then what did you do, since you’ve just told me you still haven’t tasted asparagus?”
“I threw the dish at Jerome.” She nearly choked on the words. As soon as the green spears smothered in cream had landed on the butler’s black coat and then rolled slowly to the floor, she’d regretted her impulse. “I’m sorry, Papa. It wouldn’t have happened if you were here.”
“You think not, eh?” A smile played at the corners of his mouth.
“Oh, no, Papa.” Annabella touched his cheek, enjoying the scratch of fresh whiskers beneath her fingers. “You never make me eat things I don’t like, and you don’t mind if I run down the staircase, and you tell me stories and take me for walks…”
Her father straightened and sent a long gaze in the direction of the house. Just as she thought he might have turned to stone, he clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Let us take a walk now, darling girl.” He handed her one of the candy sticks and tucked the rest back in his vest. As he buttoned his coat, he nodded toward the pasture.
Annabella licked the end of the candy stick as they walked. “Lemon!” She slipped her hand into her father’s. His touch was firm and warm, and he gave her a little squeeze. All was right in her world once more.
“Papa, do you have to go away again very soon?” She angled her head to see his face.
“Not for a little while.” He stopped at the cobblestone wall. “Maybe not for quite a long while this time.” Smiling, he gave the wall a pat. “Sit up here for a bit.” Then he set his hands about her waist and swung her onto the wall.
A lark trilled in the distance. “Hear that?” He sighed. “Ah, it’s good to be home.”
“It sounds happy, Papa.” Annabella kicked her feet against the stones.
Her father tilted his head to the side. “Why, yes it does.” He stepped closer and settled his loving gaze on her face. “And you, Annabella… are you as happy as that meadow lark?”
“Oh, yes—”
He raised one bushy eyebrow and held her in steady regard. “The truth now, Annabella. You know telling the truth is most important.”
“I am now, Papa.” She rolled her bottom lip against her teeth and stared at the bit of candy in her hand. “Now that you’ve come home.” A strand of hair blew across her face, and she wrinkled her nose against the tickle.
Her father lifted the strand on the end of one finger and tenderly tucked it behind her ear. “Has it been that hard on you, my dear? Me being away so often?”
Tears pricked at her eyelids. Distressed by her dilemma, Annabella plucked at the ivory muslin of her dress. She mustn’t lie. But the truth might hurt Papa’s feelings.
“It’s well to speak your heart, child,” he murmured.
“I like Miss Lucy,” whispered Annabella. “I like making my letters and learning how to stitch like Grandmother used to.”
“And your mother? Do you have lovely times with your mother?
Some of Annabella’s happiness faded. “Sometimes… when Aunt Charity and Aunt Harmony visit, Mama smiles a bit. And Aunt Charity plays the pianoforte, and Mama and Aunt Harmony take turns dancing with me.”
A frown settled over her father’s face, and he squeezed his eyes closed for a breath and then opened them. “You know your mother loves you, don’t you?”
Annabella blinked in confusion. “Yes, Papa. She tells me so when she sees me to bed at night.”
“She sees you to bed?” His voice seemed to swell with pleased surprise.
Taking another lick of candy stick, Annabella nodded, delighted that her answer appeared to have made Papa happy. “Every night. And sometimes she tells me stories about a lonely princess who’s kept locked in a castle.”
Her father’s head snapped up. His face turned the color of ashes, and his jaw hung slack. But he drew in a sharp breath and then released it in a long, heavy sigh. He stared into the meadow without speaking. The lark ceased her singing and flew off. Annabella traced the lace on the end of her fan as she tried to sit still and wait patiently. Papa had never looked so sad before. Was it because Mama told her stories?
After another sigh, he straightened and turned to her. “Annabella, you know nothing will change how your mother and I both love you.”
Unable to help herself, she giggled. “Yes, Papa. And I love you and Mama.” Confusion crowded into her mind. “Only sometimes… sometimes you go away, and Mama doesn’t miss you like I do. Sometimes she’s happier.” She lowered her voice to a whisper, although no one else was around to hear. “And I don’t know if she loves you as much as I do.”
Papa reached out and stroked her hair, his touch familiar and comforting. “Right. You’re a smart girl. I sometimes forget just how observant you can be.” He stepped to the wall and settled himself next to her. “I love your mother very much, and in her way, she loves me. But years ago, I made a dreadful mistake.”
Annabella twisted so she could watch Papa’s face. “What kind of mistake?”
Sadness clouded his eyes, and his mouth turned down. “That doesn’t matter just now. But it was a terrible mistake, and it had appalling consequences.” He shook his head. “And then in attempting to rectify the wrong I’d committed, I compounded that error by leaving your mother alone when she needed me most.”
Annabella frowned. Why did adults speak in such riddles all the time? “I don’t understand, Papa.”
“Yes, I know you don’t, and I pray you never will, darling girl.” He laid his arm across her shoulders. “You’re correct that your mother doesn’t feel the same affection for me that I feel for her. But I’d thought she was at peace with the decisions we’d made. I know she loves you, and I know she doesn’t regret your birth in the slightest. And I want you to know that nothing in this world or the next can steal you from my heart. Nothing.”
Tears welled, brought on by confusion and sorrow because Papa was obviously distressed about something. “But you go away so often.”
“Yes…” He nodded. “I do. I’ve been gone too much, especially of late, and I’ve missed time I would have chosen to spend with you. I suppose it has been my manner of hiding from the error of my ways. And…” He sighed heavily. �
��I’ve been attempting to right a grave wrong. Annabella, my girl, love is the greatest gift in the world, but it must be freely given and received. If you love someone, you will go anywhere with them, do anything for them. One must know when to fight for love when it goes off course, and sometimes—”
He drew her closer against him. “Sometimes it’s best to let go. Your mother had no choice but to marry me, you see. I didn’t give her one, her father didn’t give her one. And… I suppose you could say fate stole her choice as well.” He stroked Annabella’s hair again. “I love your mother enough to let her go. But as she has no place she can go to… I’m the one who’s been doing the leaving.”
Annabella blinked slowly, mulling over Papa’s words. Part of her had recognized some time ago that her mother kept out of his way whenever her father came home. And it had seemed to her that he’d slowly started traveling more frequently, staying away longer with each trip. The past few times he’d left had been unexpected. Her parents had argued wickedly before his last trip, and in the morning, he’d said goodbye and departed with no explanation of where he was going.
“Papa, when will you have to leave again?”
“I won’t be leaving any more, Annabella.” He set her away from him and gazed into her eyes. “You see, loving someone also means you must know when to stay. I love you, and I miss you so much when I’m gone. And I think — that is, I get the idea you miss me just a bit.”
She flung her arms around his neck and squeezed. “Thank you, Papa!”
He folded her against his chest. “One day, Lady Annabella, you will find you have choices of the heart. When that day comes, I pray you will choose love over what others might perceive to be the right course.”
Her sadness already evaporating, Annabella giggled. “Mama says I must behave as a proper lady would so a proper nobleman will appreciate me.”
“Annabella, my heart… if it’s a nobleman you want, I have no doubt a nobleman you shall marry.” He kissed the top of her head. “But whomever you marry, please marry a man you love, someone to whom you would willingly give your whole heart.” He laughed softly. “You may not understand that now. But one day… One day you will.”
He stood. “Come now. We must go and see what Cook is planning for dinner.”
Annabella hopped to the ground and tucked her hand into his. “I hope it’s creamed turnips.”
Papa shuddered. “I have no idea how you can eat those things with such relish.”
Chapter One
Wyndham Green, Haselmere, England
April 10, 1813
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
Six full seconds and not a word from the butler. Had he stopped reading? Jon shifted in his seat and stole a glance. But no, the sticklike man still concentrated on the missive, a little pucker between his eyebrows, focused eyes inching along a line. Probably the first line. If the printed words contained an unexploded bomb, would they ever learn of its existence? Or would it simply cease to be, if the blasted man’s crawling attention never deciphered the message?
If a tree only existed in a park whilst someone was present to perceive it, did a letter’s communication exist only upon the reading? What on earth was the man reading? The letter of introduction Grey had sent along had been less than a half page.
Jon went back to counting beats.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
For some reason, every fourth beat fell flat. Jon drummed his fingers against his thigh. Mayhap that would speed up the clock. And the butler.
Finally, the gaunt man with the unsmiling face shook out the letter and then refolded the ivory paper, taking meticulous care to follow the original creases. “The Duke of Wyndham has instructed us to give you the use of Rose Cottage.” He cleared his throat. “It’s been some years since his grace has been here at Wyndham Green.”
Impatience flared again. That much, Jon had been aware of.
“Unfortunately, the guest cottage has been unoccupied for some time. I shall have it cleaned and aired immediately.” He bowed his head. “Please forgive the delay, my lord. May I offer you some refreshment whilst you wait?”
“Thank you.”
The butler hastened from the room. How did they all manage that same stealthy glide? Were they trained in it from birth?
Restless, Jon stood and wandered the drawing room. Lace curtains fluttered at the windows, a refreshing breeze chasing the musty air around. The wooden side table was spotless, but it attested long use by the fine scratches marring the surface. He ran an idle hand over the top, stopping at a set of deeper scratches along the edge nearest the window. Bending close, he noted someone had carved letters into the fine wood.
AP. A smile tugged the corners of his mouth. Annabella Price. How old would Grey’s stepsister have been when she felt the need to make her mark on a duke’s fine furniture?
“Begging your pardon, my lord,” murmured a soft voice from behind him.
Jon whirled about and found himself staring into a pair of tawny brown eyes that reminded him of a cat. Or, maybe more importantly, reminded him of a certain young miss in London who was currently going by the name Annabella Price. Obviously a misnomer, that.
Clad in gray and white, the maid’s white cap covered her conservatively styled, graying hair that still showed a fair amount of gold. So, unless the Duchess of Wyndham had taken to wearing a servant’s dress, the chit in London appeared to be the daughter of an upstairs maid.
The maid leveled her gaze on him, waiting. In her hands she carried a silver tray. Several scones lathered with blackberry jam and cream surrounded a bone tea service. This, she sat on the side table, her movements covering the carved initials. “You’ve traveled some distance, so I asked Cook to fix you something to eat.”
“Thank you.” Jon’s mouth watered as he settled himself into the faded and threadbare red chair near the window.
The maid tipped the teapot, and a stream of steaming brown liquid tinkled into the cup. “I’ve sent a girl to the cottage to see it’s opened and aired. I’ll send a kitchen maid with your meals… unless you plan to take your supper here at the main house?”
Jon frowned. Eat at the main house? The idea of being waited on, watched while he ate, held little appeal. “Er, no. I shall take my meals at the cottage.”
“Sugar or cream?”
Her hand hovered over the sugar bowl. A working hand. Not rough, but already developing thickened joints and fine wrinkles. Gran’s hands had looked like that years ago when he was a boy. Now—
“My lord?”
“Sorry.” Jon blinked, almost surprised to find himself surrounded by the stark, threadbare furniture of Wyndham Green rather than the luxuriant accoutrements of Blackmoor Hall. “Both please.”
“Will there be anything else, my lord?”
“Thank you, no.”
With a curtsey, she turned and left.
Polite to a fault. Not as much fire in her eyes as in her daughter’s. He spared a thought for Grey and the imposter. Sparks had certainly flown between them. Maybe Grey would… Shaking his head, Jon expelled a long sigh. Since their school days, he and Grey had been like brothers, but Jon would never understand Grey’s tendency to take on the weight of the world. Maybe he’d avail himself of some innocent fun with the faux lady in his residence before their difference in status became too apparent.
Now, if only he could settle the riddle of where exactly his friend’s stepsister had hidden herself away…
~~~~
“Drop that this instant, you scoundrel!” Annabella raised the iron cooking pot over her head with both hands and flung it in the direction of the gray rodent scampering across the floor of the dusty deserted kitchen. The pot landed with a dull thud about a foot from the mouse then rolled onto its side against one of the empty barrels in the pantry. With a hideous squeak, the mouse disap
peared behind a worktable standing along the wall, dragging the crust of bread with it.
Annabella shrieked with rage and picked up an iron meat skewer, pitching it like a spear in the direction the filthy rodent had gone. “Devil’s fire! That was my last bit of bread, you vile creature!”
Silence fell like a blanket. The dust she’d raised in her battle with the little beggar floated in the air, and Annabella sneezed.
This is much better than going to London and spending the Season. Starving. Lonely. Having to sneak after dark to get water from the brook to wash. No way to get a message to Juliet. I certainly am teaching my mother and that son-of-the-devil Markwythe a lesson.
“Oh!” Annabella stomped her foot in disgust and glared at the cook pot. She should have chosen something lighter, easier to throw.
Then what? Wrestle the field mouse for the crust? Have you really sunk that low? Her stomach rumbled. She sipped from her glass of sugary water, but the warm liquid didn’t satisfy.
A single, horrid lemon sat in the middle of the worktable, its rough yellow peel mocking her. Of course the filthy mice couldn’t possibly have made off with that. No, they had to go for the bits of food she found palatable. She snatched up the oblong fruit and rolled it between her palms.
Why had she not rationed her food better so it would last longer? The little bit of food Juliet had packed for her had only lasted a couple of days, making a midnight trip to the kitchen in the main house necessary. She’d barely been able to wait until returning to Rose Cottage to feast on the blackberry tart, half a plate of cold shepherd’s pie, and loaf of bread she’d made off with. And she certainly hadn’t rationed it any better.
She picked up a long knife — the only one she had found in the derelict cottage. The dull blade fought with the thick peel and the lemon rolled out of her hand once, but finally she managed to slice off the end and squirt a bit into her water. The acidulous scent rose to torment her nostrils, and her hand shook as she raised the glass to her mouth.
